


Watch For Better Things

by lammermoorian



Series: wincest drabs [8]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Rome, Sam Winchester's Demonic Powers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-26
Updated: 2017-05-26
Packaged: 2018-11-05 05:21:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11006841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lammermoorian/pseuds/lammermoorian
Summary: 4th century AD. Somewhere in Greece, Dean fights a losing battle.





	Watch For Better Things

He hoists himself up on one knee, sand worming its way into the split skin of his knuckles, spits a mouthful of blood on the dirt and grins a red grin. Bela Venata looms above him, her short, jagged sword aimed squarely at his heart, clumps of mud-matted hair not enough to cover the savage look in her eyes. Around them, the amphitheater screams - for his head, perhaps, or for hers, or simply an undiscerning avalanche of blood and death - but, alas, she only pierces his shoulder, then throws her weapon at his feet in disgust, to the cheers and jeers of the spiteful crowd. “There it is, ladies and gentlemen!” cries the voice of the Caledonian shithead. “Point - Venata!”

“Problem, Rex?” Venata asks as she hauls him up off of the ground. “I know you can put up a better fight then that.”

He merely shrugs his uninjured shoulder, refusing to meet her gaze. “Rough night.”

“Mmhmm.” To the uninitiated, it would seem as though she were sneering at him - as well she should. A gladiatrix, even one so far removed from the center of the empire, should never stoop so low as to feel for her enemies. Yet Dean has fought her enough to know the subtleties of the arch of her brow, the curve of her lip, the barely discernible tilt of her head as she stalks towards the porta triumphalis, where he knows wine and bandages and beds await them both. He follows meekly behind, the throbbing in his shoulder nearly enough to distract him from the shouts and hisses left in his wake. “Down with the king!” They cry. “Hail the emperor!" 

Not that Dean minds. ‘Rex’ is something of a borrowed name, after all.

In the barracks, Bela sews up his shoulder - a feat Dean could well perform himself, were it not for the goblet currently occupying his right hand - with such intensity and precision that one would think they had not been at each other’s throats mere moments ago, but they have performed this ritual many times over. In truth, were they anywhere else in this godsforsaken land, they would not be so close. There are already so few gladiators this far from home; finding one who had not crossed the line from warrior to thug was a true rarity. 

"That was stupid," Bela grunts. "You could have taken me down three or four times and you didn't take a single one."

"Really? I thought I saw five or six."

She grabs the goblet out of his hand, dousing his open wound with cheap wine. "Faex, woman!" Dean hisses. "Are you actually trying to kill me?"

"I ought to," she mutters, picking back up her needle and thread, hands delicate. "I should have killed you the minute I laid my eyes on you - and your damned tattoo." She reaches for water this time, cleansing the mud from the flaming star over his heart. "I'd ask you what you were thinking, running around with that thing painted on you, hanging out for all the empire and even fucking Jove himself to see, but I know that particular story is a dead end." Fixing him with a stony stare, she asks, "I assume you have no regrets?"

He thinks of early mornings, back home in Gaul, of a sleeping body on the banks of the river, of dark nights and fireflies in cupped hands, of dark, fearful eyes and nighttime terrors. "None at all."

She sighs, snipping the thread. "One day, I will wash my hands of you, I swear." 

Dean wishes he could say the same. 

*~*~*~*~*

Dean absolutely despises the stench of fish. The slimy, half-rotten odor that permeates his clothing and settles into his hair, filling his dreams with visions of vicious, vengeful fish as they chase him through the endless labyrinth of the docks is enough to put him off seafood for the rest of his life.

Unfortunately, it's the only thing Dean can afford today. 

Trudging back home, smelly prize in hand, he does his best not to think of dried figs and honeycomb, or of salted pork, and certainly not of Senator Bardus' hot, sweet, spiced wine. Studiously ignoring the sudden spike of guilt, he lets himself imagine that, rather than splintered wood under his feet, he is walking on the smooth cobblestone of a cool summer night, the sounds of horse hooves and shouting vendors and children's laughter cleaving to each other in an unfamiliar, urban music. With a jolt, Dean realizes that he can barely remember his father's house; furiously he attempts to envision the trees he climbed as a child, or his father's favorite chair, yet they have slipped entirely from his memory.

He'd been in Rome too fucking long.

Still, despite everything, Dean would do it again. Without a doubt. 

With that lovely thought, Dean arrives at his front door, only to find it slightly ajar. It's already open. Dean frowns. He pushes at it, watching it swing slowly inward, and in the waning light of evening, Dean can see a single booted foot, its owner sprawled all over the floor.

"Sammy?" Dean calls softly, his stomach in his toes. "Sammy?"

"In here," comes the soft reply, low and tremulous. 

Huddled on the filthy pallet in the corner, Dean's little brother is curled in on himself, arms and face speckled with drying blood - several hours dried, if Dean had to guess. Before him on the floor, Sam's would-be assassin lies cold, scratched face frozen in a shocked snarl, his hand clutching a wicked-looking dagger. Next to him, Dean's rucksack, packed and ready to go. "I - " Sam stammers, "I'm sorry, I just - I woke up and he - I thought I was - he said - " Sam shudders, rubbing at his tattoo, the flaming star. In the dim light, it almost looks as if it glows, red hot and angry. "I thought -"

"Did you pack before or after?"

Sam blinks, caught off-guard in one of his sanest moments in ages. "Huh?"

Reaching out, like he's approaching a wild animal, Dean smiles as best he can. "I just wanna know - did you pack before or after... this?" He gestures lamely to the dead body, and Sam looks away.

"Before."

Dean nods. "Okay. Let's get going." 

One day they will find someplace safe. One day, they won't have to sleep with one eye open. And one day, Dean will find Azazel and rip out his lungs himself. But until that day, the road beckons them yet again.

**Author's Note:**

> May or may not continue. Wow it's been a while.


End file.
